A Series of Humorous Endeavors
by FinalJump
Summary: A collection of any humorfics I may choose to write for Sherlock  BBC . Contains mentions of slash. Chapters may not be in order timeline wise.
1. We Don't Need a Dog!

After much consideration, I've decided to transform this into a series of humorfics with little bits of fluff, slash, and the typical hardheadedness that only Sherlock could manage. I'm not British and thus am not sure about their diction, so I'm hoping it well enough. If you see any errors, drop a review and point them out. Now, enjoy the presentation!

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><p>It was just another day in the flat, filled with the never-ceasing boredom lacking a case provided, and the dullness of an absent John Watson. He had a job to go to, Sherlock knew quite well, but he required a sounding board much more animated than a <em>hollow<em> skull. The dead couldn't speak or think—something the consulting detective both liked and loathed.

Quicksilver eyes leered at a common household item, known as toothpaste, with a mixture of disinterest. Perhaps he could switch John's with this concoction—no, it was best not to hurt his flat-mate with boredom-induced creations. Perhaps he could slip it to Anderson… Poison Ivy subtracts carefully, and tastelessly, added to regular toothpaste. Oh, that would be _quite_ the day—

The sound of heavy steps and an all too familiar gait echoed from the stairway leading to their flat, and these brought the tall man out of his evil plotting. Of course, he could have chosen to ignore John entirely, but he was the one distraction worth the aggravation. The door opened and shut, albeit a little bit more slowly than what was normal. _Anticipation? Shame?_ Several ideas formed in the younger man's head. A silence ensued for a little over a second as, he assumed, the older man cast a look around for the mysteriously absent of plain sight detective. He didn't always stay in the main room, so why was it so baffling that he wasn't currently? "John." A simple greeting, as none more extensive was ever needed.

A grey-blond head poked around the corner, seeing a—on first glance—puzzled looking detective, although that was not the case. A single tube of toothpaste sat before him on the kitchen table, the curly-haired man sitting in a chair seemingly contemplatively, in what could be suspected had been a long silence before his intrusion. "Sherlock." The subtle tone of _'here we go again'_ crept into the doctor's tone, but it was without malice. "You… did something to that tube, didn't you?"

"Clearly." Eyes finally leaving their victim, Sherlock turned his head and looked at his single friend… and what he saw next caused even him, the world's possibly most unshakable man, to nearly drop his mouth. In the arms of the comparatively more warm-hearted man was a puppy.

A puppy.

The child form of a _canis lupus familiaris_.

"Before you say anything," Oh, now John seemed visibly more distraught, "She was a stray, in a box, in an alley on the way back. The cabbies recognize me from what you did to one of them in our last case, so I had to take a walk, and—" A hand halted the rest of his defensive babble.

"You know we can't take care of a _dog_." The baritone voice of the younger man seemed so much more authoritative than the older could ever hope to match, although that was not necessarily true. "We leave the flat on split notices for days, I conduct many experiments, you're gone most of the day—"

"She's a dog, Sherlock. She doesn't need twenty-four-seven care."

"And she's a puppy. What if she's not housebroken? She could mess on my documents, on the carpet, or in the walkway! I could cross the room, slip on fecal matter, and hit my head on the floor! Refraining from concussions is of vital importance in my line of work." Threateningly, Sherlock stood up.

"What—you're being paranoid, Sherlock! I already asked Mrs. Hudson, and she agreed to look after her during the day. You won't even notice her, anyway. I'm going to go give her a bath while I think of a name—you just sit there and stare at whatever that is on the table." Aggravation was terrifyingly thick in his voice as he slipped out of the room, leaving behind an air of finality. Oh, this was just _perfect_. Utterly perfect, if you counted not having any form of communications beside a cold shoulder to be so.

As the water was being run for the infernal infant, Sherlock retired to the living room, sulking in his chair, legs brought up to his chest. Why a dog? Why not a cat—no no, cats were just as bad.

As his thoughts became more irrelevant to that subject, he could hear some cursing and other sounds—sounds akin to falling objects and shaking—from the bathroom. Sounded like John wasn't having a good time with giving the pup a bath, which he deserved every bit of the hardship. They didn't need to give _charity_ to a stray!

Before long, a rather triumphant husky pup padded out and sniffed around, followed by a John who was covered head to toe in soggy clothing, with soap suds strewn about on both his skin and clothing. The detective's eyebrow quirked in a silent question, although he already knew what had occurred. "I had a row with a miniature devil." Exasperated, and out of energy. Positively drained, and he'd only had them for an hour or so. It was to his surprise when Sherlock burst into his uniquely deep laughter. "What's so funny?" He just didn't see it.

"She gave you more of a bath than you gave her. Observe yourself." He quieted into a chuckle as John looked down at his top, his arms, ran a hand through his hair, and processed how he must look to the other. Once he had a glimpse of how silly he appeared, he decided in a quiet-and amused-huff to go take a proper shower.

And that tiny terror playfully nipped at his heels as he rushed about.

The next day, Sherlock found himself up and about long before John ever woke up without the aid of nightmares, as per usual. He eyed every inch of the flat as if it were his own personal battleground, but the puppy had, remarkably, done none of the things he felt so sure she'd do. She hadn't even sat on his chair, as was proven by the lack of dog fur on it. But, where was that blasted hound at? Soon enough, he found her sitting before an empty bowl, looking utterly rejected—although Sherlock didn't quite understand why. "John, make me—" Wait. John was in bed. With a sigh, he made his own tea, and sat down. Invariably, his eyes were drawn to the still-unnamed pet, who was by then staring back at him. Begging? For food, he assumed—the bowl was empty and the bag John had bought her was impossible for her to use for herself. Lacking thumbs and being so tiny had to be a cruel trick of nature. He felt no inclination to feed her—he had, after all, been told that he was excluded from all duties relating to her besides not killing her or using her for any form of entertainment (because, let's be honest—John didn't trust Sherlock with a puppy any more than he would with a _newborn babe_).

But, despite his efforts of ignorance to her demands, he found himself meeting her eyes. "I am not your caretaker." His words stood firm and solid, a sign that he would not budge on his oath.

And yet she stared.

Quicksilver eyes, meeting sweet blue eyes, locked in a battle of wits and wants.

Fighting for what each wanted, begging to be allowed what they so desperately needed. Food, and space.

And then she whined.

Maybe just a small fragment of his heart thawed. "Just this once, just this once, you _ungrateful vagabond_." It was utterly remarkable that he stood up, walked over, lifted her bag of food, and gave her a startlingly appropriate dosage of nutrients to get her going for a feeding's worth.

Later, when a groggy John made his way into the kitchen to make himself coffee, he was greeted to the sight of the puppy's dish refilled (Sherlock had, by then, filled it twice since he'd been awake for ages as is, and it was the older man's day off, thus he slept in), with Sherlock still sitting at the table, watching as the puppy chased after the newly-awoken man. And then John did a double-take. "Did you…"

"Yes, I did. Also, don't use the milk." Just as if he'd done absolutely _nothing remarkable_.

"You gave me a speech yesterday about how you don't want anything to do with her… and yet you fed her. I'm afraid I don't understand." He turned back to his work, gave the milk a strange look, and continued making his coffee with alternative means.

"I lost a battle, but I assure you, I won't lose the war." Guarded eyes searched for the other man's comparatively warmer ones, but to no success.

"Isn't like you to admit losing anything. You sure you're okay?" Amused, John waited as the coffee maker slowly hissed to life.

"Well, I have to admit the truth once in a while."

"Sherlock, you'll never cease to amaze me."

"Good, because I refuse to lose your interest." A devilish smirk played on his gorgeous lips as John whirled around, giving him quite a look.

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><p>Don't forget to drop a review~<p> 


	2. Sickness Denial

Sick!Sherlock seems to be popular, so I thought-why not write my own spin on it? Read and have fun, and don't forget your shoes or that pineapple lurking in your fridge.

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><p>Nobody would have thought it to be a scene of foul play unless they had looked down to see the corpse stretched upon the cold floor. The men surrounding the otherwise ghastly scene were all too calm, entirely used to this sort of thing, and this case was not at all startling enough to shock them out of their element.<p>

A flurry of movement as he always was when he was motivated, Sherlock whirled about, seeing and observing all that could humanly—and debatably, inhumanly—be seen. It was an act that would fool all who were unaccustomed to such brilliance, but John Watson was no slouch in his profession. He could see telltale sluggishness, a faint and controlled nasal congestion filtering into the younger man's words, and the wheeze he so dutifully hid. Oh, as good as an actor Sherlock could be, he couldn't always fool his flat mate/personal doctor.

"So…?" Lestrade, having found himself gravitating toward the door merely to stay out of the way, at last spoke up.

The sound of another's voice for once seemed to break the prodigious man's concentration, leaving him standing still for a brief moment. It was with an air of being inconvenienced that he formed his reply, well executed and detailed despite his aforementioned loss of focus. Surprisingly, he didn't even berate Lestrade for his ignorance. "The hotel is high class, certainly has cameras and likely saw the man who killed this lady. I say man, because of the shoe size and brand of his shoeprints littering the floor. It's not one of your investigative teams', either; I can identify their prints separately. The bed is unused and rigor mortis has set in, so she either died before bed-time or was placed here post-death. She's lying in an unnatural position, the stab wounds would have allowed for far more blood to seep out and onto the carpet, and most of these were made post-death… This is not the original crime scene, and is instead a crude attempt at covering up that fact, as well as a fit of personal vendetta judging by all the wounds." Having stooped over the corpse to point out all his observations, he then made his way to the windowsill. "The window is accessible from outside via a fire escape, and the lock is not all the way closed. While this is circumstantial, it opens the possibility of how the body could be snuck in. The escape is dark; few would have noticed anyone quietly climbing it." With fluid grace, he whirled around and advanced toward the body. "Footprints to the window, to the door as well, and the latter had been locked when she was found. Obviously he came and left using the fire escape, but how did this room get paid for if she was dead? He rented it ahead of time. Assumedly under an alias, so figure out who was handling last night's check-ins and get a hold of the camera's tapes." Eyes snapped away from the scene to hone in on Lestrade's. "Detective-Inspector, have you dusted this room for prints? Or conducted tests for blood elsewhere than around the corpse?"

Lestrade had been busily jotting down notes up until that point, and appeared rather sheepish about the matter. "Er… No, I had it left alone so you'd have a mostly undisturbed scene."

"As I thought. Have them pay close attention to the windowsill and doorway—" Eyes widening suddenly, Sherlock looked as if he were dumbstruck—until he flinched away and sneezed loudly. "_ACHOO!_"

"Whoa, keep that away from me," The D.I. promptly moved away, amused and not at all interested in catching a cold.

That was quite the opposite reaction to John's, who had remained rather silent for the duration of his flat mate's skilled deduction, and now found himself taking a step forward. He had been listening not to the words, but the breathing, and could already compile a list of grievances Sherlock seemed to readily ignore from his own neural network. "Sherlock, _you're sick_." Plain as day, obvious as ever, he cut through the fat.

A prompt glare was given from the detective, borderline seething at him. "I am not. Now, Detective-Inspector, I believe that based on the facts presented to us, we're looking for a lover or hostile husband. Her ring is missing, as we can tell from the discoloring of her ring finger—_ACHOO…!_" Again, Sherlock was forced to face away as he ungracefully sneezed into his sleeve.

A glaring contest ensued between Sherlock and John, one feeling quite in denial, and the other inflated for the fact he was right. It was an odd scene, quite inverted from the usual. To John's relief, Lestrade dropped his arms and gave a dismissing gesture toward the door. "That'll be all for now boys, I'll call if anything comes up. _Keep out of trouble_." The latter part was given to Sherlock exclusively.

_"I wasn't done,_" Sherlock growled, only be pushed out of the room by his live-in doctor. Right now, he found himself intensely regretting that decision, but he was out in the hallway before he had time to retort. "I'm on a case, John, sickness can wait. I'm fine." Challenging, as always.

"Yeah, you're fine. You're always fine, so you say. How many days have you been awake this time? This is your second case in a row, Sherlock, you're running on nothing and the air is cold outside. It's no wonder you're sick." Darker eyes met quicksilver ones fearlessly, unabashed about his concern.

"So you'd have me chained to the flat simply for—" he paused and thought better of his words as John's expression grew angrier, "_for my health_, when I could be out there catching criminals and saving lives?"

"Yes I would. Because if you catch pneumonia, there's no way in hell you'd be able to work like that. You're already slower than usual and off a bit, and I can tell you're still hiding symptoms. What if we have to go chasing down a criminal?" Holding firm, the good doctor moved aside and motioned for Sherlock to lead the way out, hoping it would settle the matter.

He didn't quite realize how big of a baby—and not just a _baby_, but a _slippery devil_—he was dealing with.

It would appear that the matter was resolved. With a brisk walk, Sherlock shrugged it off and made his way down the elevator and out of the hotel, wordless and seemingly unforgiving of this petty inconvenience, as a child may sulk when they're told they can't go out to a play center when they fall ill. His body once more betrayed his condition, shivering in the cold and forcing him to cough sporadically, at last failing to withhold its condition any further. The cab ride back was none the better, considering he spoke nary a word and stared out of the window the whole time.

It was only when they arrived at the flat that John broke the overwhelming silence, a rather firm command in his voice. "I'm going to take a trip to the store to get you something, so you go make yourself comfortable. See if Evelynn (the name given to the pup) needs out or something." A grunt of affirmation was all he got, but at least Sherlock did as told and disappeared behind the door. This wouldn't take long at all; a trip to get some decongestants, a vapor rub, and anything else he could think of—of course, maybe he was being too concerned, he told himself. Sherlock was an adult, as surprising as that could be sometimes, and hadn't gone off and killed his self yet. _'Sometimes, I think he does this just to see what I'll do. Like I'm one of his god-forsaken experiments.'_

As blustery as the weather was, he was thankful that the store he frequented for whatever they may need was close by, lest he likewise suffer. In through the door, and immediately to the medicinal supplies aisle, no hesitation present—until he realized the medicine he wanted was not only _on the top row_, but _so far in the back_ that he'd need to stand on the bottom row to even reach it. _'Oh bloody hell—I should have brought Sherlock with me. All these medicines and they place one he needs at the top!'_ Not that John was one to admit being disadvantaged by his height; rather, he knew when he could use the help. He placed his foot on the bottom row cautiously, and when assured it would hold, he climbed up the extra few inches and used another box to pry out the medicine he'd specifically come for—when his leg promptly disagreed at the last moment and sent him _sprawling across the linoleum floor_.

After having himself a nasty huff, he finally was able to check himself out of the store and head back to the flat. He hadn't even started up the stairs when Mrs. Hudson appeared in all her motherly glory, playing bearer of bad news with cautious worry. "Oh, dear you came back. That officer you boys work with—Lestrade?—called me and told me Sherlock would be staying in for a few days and to help watch for him. Don't think he trusted the poor boy, bless him, and good reason too—Sherlock stayed by the door until you were out of sight and ran out again. He didn't even say hullo to me." She was slightly offended at the rudeness of not being greeted, but being as warm hearted as she was, she was more concerned for her tenant's health.

"Mother of mercy…" The sandy haired man groaned and set down his grocer bag on the steps, and made to bolt out the door, but thought better of it for a second and paused. "Good evening Mrs. Hudson, sorry about the trouble. I better go fetch him before he causes himself more grief."

"You're only doing what's best for him, sweetie." If anyone thought the landlady was a lot like a mother to Sherlock—they hadn't seen John in moments like these.

As for Sherlock, he was casually strolling down alleys and back roads as if he were doing absolutely nothing wrong. John deserved this, he mused to himself. Mycroft had played mummy for their entire childhood, and that was the one thing Sherlock did not agree with—being treated like a child. It hurt his ridiculous ego to be demeaned to such a shocking degree. Yes, he quite believed it—John deserved the inconvenience.

However, he found his throat becoming increasingly sore as the air bit into it…

Blast it all, he didn't need to be locked up though! Shrugging his scarf higher and over his mouth, he found some relief from the onslaught. Soon enough he was beneath a bridge, at one of his favorite places to get away to when he did not want holed up in the flat. For as oblivious as he was to societal norms and emotions, the sound of running water and being in a relatively covered space did wonders for calming him and getting him thinking. The case… Was it a husband, or a lover, who had killed the woman? It could even be as strange as being a gay lover of either of the possibilities. Something vital was slipping by him, some important fact that would make or break the case. Something elusive, something blocking him, preventing him its discovery…

…someone like John Watson, who was advancing on him as if he were a dog out for the kill.

"Sherlock." Asking for his attention, searching for some recognition at the very least.

"…John." Oh, he knew he was caught now. And it didn't stop the smirk growing beneath his coiled scarf.

"Someday, Sherlock, I'm going to beat the snot out of you. Now get your ass back to the flat and stay there—doctor's orders!" John turned around as if to lead them out, but hatefully paused when Sherlock did not move. "I'm not leaving you out here."

"You'd be doing me a favor if you beat the snot out of me." For a moment, it seemed as if he were making a cruel joke about his head, but a deft finger aimed at his nose proved otherwise. Suffering from the congestion by now, maybe it'd be kind of John to make that phrase a reality.

A sigh of both humor and exasperation left the doctor, and he simply shook his head, a laugh shaking his body. "First things first, you have a late appointment at 211B Baker Street. No more of this," he motioned at the walkway and the area they were in, "I don't want to be a mother hen, but don't run you into an early grave." Seeing the look of surprise on Sherlock's face, he gave a thin smile and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, tugging him toward home—and now, the taller man obediently behaved.

Halfway back, Sherlock pulled out of the grasp and walked beside him. "How did you deduce where I was?" He was curious for obvious reasons.

"Sometimes you'd come back with moisture on your jacket or shoes despite the weather being dry for a while, and if it snowed or rained, your hair wouldn't be too soaked. A covered space with water, then, and I figured it could only be beneath a bridge. Lucky guess." He shrugged, not thinking too much of it.

"Marvelous."

So calmly was it spoken, John had to glance at him after a moment. "Now you sound like me. You must really be sick."

He earned not a returning glance from Sherlock, but a chuckle. Perhaps that was so. It's possible they'd been around each other too long and could emulate each other. It was one thing Sherlock wasn't quite sure of—it had to do with friendship, and all things relating to it were still so new.

Once at the flat, Mrs. Hudson was gone and the abandoned grocery bag was in the kitchen beside some sort of bizarre experiment involving a poisonous slug and how long it could live with a certain amount of oxygen and no food. Hell if John knew what it was for, and Sherlock had insisted it was for a case. But… what case? And thus he had learned to ignore that matter for now—maybe Sherlock was just doing it to annoy him, or be cruel to an animal—well, it wasn't an animal.

"John, how long do I have to stay confined?" Back to normal, Sherlock didn't sound at all pleased about his prospects. At least he was sitting obediently on the couch, stroking Evelynn's fur absently.

"A few days at the least. I don't have my stethoscope with me so I can't check your lungs, but I can still hear it in your voice. You'll be down for a week at any rate." Matter of fact talk as he sorted through the stuff he'd bought.

"I can't stay cooped up for that long, John!" Again the childishness slipped into his personality, and he was attempting to talk and breathe normally—and failing.

"Nope, doctor's orders. Lestrade won't be bothering you for a week, so either solve cases on your phone and laptop, or rest. Keep up and you'll get the flu, and I don't want to catch that." Even as a man who'd seen others suffer the flu many times and had personally experienced it, he couldn't help the shiver of dread. "Now Sherlock, you're doing to take this stuff and get yourself better." He spoke while leaving the kitchen and, to Sherlock's dismay, was carrying a variety of different medicines. "What? I could have gotten prescribed medicines, but this is cheaper and you don't take money from the Yard."

Sherlock's only reply was a grimace and, as syrup and a couple pills were handed to him, he slowly, agonizingly downed them. "There. Happy, Mother?"

"Don't be a child Sherlock, I'm not in a dress, so I couldn't be your mother."

"Oh right, you're Mycroft then. A queen in the _wrong lingerie_."

"Sherlock!" Oh, he couldn't help his surprised laughter, and he tossed a pillow at his obstinate flat mate before leaving the room. Soon enough, he came back with a glass of sweetened warm milk. "Here. Should help relax you, it's an old recipe."

Taking the glass, Sherlock sniffed at it curiously and suspiciously, before taking a sip. _'He acts like I'm giving him poison!'_ Whatever concerns the younger man had vanished then and there, and while he gave no thanks, it was obvious from his expression that he was content.

John had decided to make himself supper and as Sherlock had refused to eat, had eaten in the kitchen. That slug turned out to not be as repulsing as other experiments, and he found himself curiously watching it slide around as he thought of what he could do for the evening. "Hey Sherlock, you want to watch crap telly?" A moment passed, and no reply. _'Must mean yes.'_

He put the dish up and moved toward the TV, but was halted before turning it on by perhaps the most adorable sight ever. Sherlock had fallen asleep stretched out on the couch with Evelynn snuggled up by him, an arm draped over the growing pup. Sound asleep, looking far more peaceful than he had in ages—rightly so as no doubt everything had taken a toll on him. John left to retrieve the sheet off Sherlock's bed and draped it over the pair on the couch, and found himself smiling despite himself.

_'Wouldn't believe him to be as mad as he is when he's like this. He looks so… human.'_


End file.
